Have you ever had a task you needed to do? And the more you put it off, the more it caused anxiety? Then months pass and you still haven’t done it?

For me, that’s writing a blog post.

I write almost daily, whether for Countryside or Backyard Poultry Magazines or one of my books. But writing about me? About what I’m up to, my goals or dreams? Or even the weekly farm mishap which resulted in animal poop spread everywhere it shouldn’t be? (Trust me, those are weekly.)

I haven’t been blogging. But I need to. Especially now that life is ramping up fast.

So, though I realize the well-intentioned futility of New Year’s Resolutions, it just happens to be New Year’s at the time that I decide I must blog weekly. Whether anyone reads it is another story. But I’ll do it. And I’ll try not to make every…

Wow, it’s been a long time since I’ve sat down and written a post specifically for this blog. But I often get questions and comments from people seeking help with local zoning laws for livestock. Thank you for using Ames Family Farm as a resource.

I started Ames Family Farm about 2.5 years ago to secure the identity in case I proceeded with my crazy business ideas such as opening a greenhouse, creating a local homesteading educational circuit, or even just publishing a few books on the lifestyle. Soon after AFF went live, an editor from Backyard Poultry Magazine sought me out and invited me to blog for the magazine. I was flattered. After thinking it over for a short time I agreed. My posts have appeared on Backyard Poultry Magazine’s website for over two years now.

Over the years I’ve been privileged to meet some phenomenal people whose writing has grown out of their personal experiences, habits, hobbies and passions in remarkable ways. Hence this “Writing Family” series: a spotlight on various writers whose work has taken on new life from things they do every day.

One such person is medieval-based fantasy writer Marissa Ames. Her Tir Athair series exposes the wonderfully intricate medieval world, populated with complex characters navigating moral quandaries common to the human condition in all ages of the world. Yet writing isn’t her only superpower. She is also a hard-core homesteader with an impressive skill set, from making homemade mozzarella to raising chickens, not to mention being a stellar from-scratch cook.

Relax—you still have time to buy books for Christmas without paying shipping fees or worrying that they won’t arrive in time. These options are for—

Out-of-town family and friends who have Kindles or Nooks (or the free reading Kindle app on their computers or smartphones). Both Amazon and Barnes & Noble have e-book gift-giving options; just look for the “Give/buy as gift” button. If providing the recipient’s email address is a problem, Amazon will let you use your own. (I’m thinking you could print out the email and put it in a card or stocking . . . )

Family and friends who live around here. For these, I’m talking about our local bookstores, which are suddenly competitive with the online booksellers when you absolutely have to have a tangible gift for someone to open at Christmas and you haven’t bought it yet.

On September 20th, Vassal: The Second Book of Tir Athair will be available in both print and eBook formats. To celebrate, Reno’s best independent bookstore will be hosting me as I sign print copies of all available Tir Athair works. But book signings aren’t the only attractions that day.

Book cover and advertisements designed by Blue Harvest Creative

Schedule of Events:

11am: Storytelling for the kids by aspiring author Dave Nightingale

11am: Falconry demonstrations by Darkwell Castle Organization

11:30: Old world fibers by Beck, including spinning wheels and hand-spindling

Throughout the day:

Heavy combat demonstrations by the Society for Creative Anachronism. (The public will only be spectators for combat demonstrations.)

Craft demonstrations by the Society for Creative Anachronism

Historical representations of the Royal Court of Mary Queen of Scots

Other events are still being determined and will be added to the schedule once finalized.

Other authors include Jean Booth, authors of Zombie War and The Origins paranormal series, and Kurt Winans, author of science fiction works Pilgrimage and Second Moon. Works by all three authors are kept in stock at Grassroots Books.

On site food, including vegan and gluten free options, served by J&J’s Italian Ices

Grassroots Books is the preferred storefront for the Tir Athair series. Print prices will always be lower at Grassroots than on Amazon.com. However, if you prefer eBooks, you can pre-order Vassal for only $3.49 until September 20th. Upon the book’s release date, the price will rise to $4.99.

We returned from the Great War, certain no worse horrors existed than we’d witnessed in Europe. Dead French children, lying in pieces after German invasions, could not compare to American children, walking in pieces after the Spanish Flu.

Ten months we waited in Nantucket. Olive drab wool hung from bodies that had been strapping before the draft. Farm boys and dockworkers, we had obeyed Woodrow Wilson and defended the world. We swore we could see Lady Liberty from the coast if we squinted. We wanted to kiss our mothers, for the war was over. Ten months, because of a pandemic on domestic soil.

We only knew what the dots and dashes told, brief code testifying of a plague ravaging young bodies. A flu threatened to exterminate New York before the next decade. It took fathers and mothers, and boys too young for the draft. It would take us as well if we left Nantucket.

For ten months, the officers wouldn’t let us rest. We trained like Germans on the Western Front, building trenches out of bricks and wood. They claimed the next war would not be in the countryside. Our bayonets stabbed straw dummies. Aim for the head, they said. Always the head.

The dots and dashes stopped. A final four words: All dead. Feeling sick.

We boarded the ship home, clutching scarred bayonets. Ghost ships drifted in Long Island Sound. Sailors shuffled on deck, ignoring our hails. The officers refused to stop. Dead, they said, though the sailors still walked. Bodies floated in the East River, bloated and stinking. Still they twitched and swam.

New Yorkers roamed Times Square, all dead. Rotting hands clutched newspapers, as if the bodies remembered they still had jobs to do. Women shuffled through the streets with dried blood on their hobble skirts, testifying that hobbling for fashion had been their downfall. Bowlers and fedoras tumbled in the wind, kicked by the mindless ambling of corpses in spats.

With khaki cloth tied around our mouths, we slunk through the streets. Keep quiet, the officers said, until safe within the trenches. Keep your bayonets ready, else you fall the same way as did the previous platoon.

That platoon had not known what to expect, the officers said. The dots and dashes never mentioned an appetite for flesh, or inhuman speed despite rotting limbs. We found pieces of the previous platoon, leftover after the dead had eaten their fill. Those pieces walked or crawled, draped in olive drab, searching for more flesh to consume.

Within trenches built before that platoon fell, we whispered and prayed. For our mothers, we said. For President Wilson, and the United States. An attack developed by an enemy more human than our former patriots would give us the advantage. Strike hard and fast, the officers said. Aim for the head. Always the head.

We raised our bayonets high, to defend the world before the next decade began.

Soldiers from Fort Riley, Kansas, ill with the Spanish Flu

Did you enjoy this story? Read the other entries, contest rules, and information regarding the Dead Sea Games books HERE!

The day is fast approaching. Vassal: the Second Book of Tir Athair will be available in two more months! If you live in Reno, you can buy the print version on September 20th at Grassroots Books, Reno’s best independent bookstore!

To celebrate the release, I am teaming up with Grassroots to coordinate a medieval street faire for the enjoyment of all Tir Athair fans and Grassroots customers. Join us September 20th for entertainment, demonstrations, and books from me and other local authors Jean Booth and Kurt Winans. We’ll have storytellers to entertain the kids while parents shop, and even food vendors to help you through your midday hunger.

We invite you to a lineup that already includes Old World Spinning by Beck, storytelling by emerging author David Nightingale, acrobatics by marital artist Nancy Bouffiou, Renaissance-inspired music by Jaidyn MacDonald, and singing by the Nielson Princesses. The schedule is almost full, but we have a few spots left.

I’m looking for demonstrators. I need:

actors

artists

singers

dancers

musicians

educators

craftsmen

anyone who can represent medieval, Renaissance or Old World skills for the enjoyment of others.

We intend to publicize this event with press releases, sign twirlers in medieval garb, Facebook and Twitter announcements, and professional posters designed by Blue Harvest Creative and placed in local independent stores and coffee shops. We even hope to attract media coverage. If you participate in this event, your organization will be noticed!

This is an outreach gig, not a paid gig. You may hand out information for your venues or sales endeavors. We’ll provide a large bowl labeled “Ye Olde Tips” to help you out. Per Grassroots’ needs, we cannot offer you space to sell your own products. We also cannot involve the public in any demonstrations which may be dangerous, such as combat or acrobatics. You may involve the public in the more innocuous arts and crafts. We will ask all demonstrators to sign waivers.

If you would like to take part in this fun opportunity for artistic outreach, please message me at marissaames4@gmail.com or on my Facebook author page! Let me know what demonstration you wish to offer, and we will see if we can add you to our lineup.

But hurry! This schedule must be finalized by July 31, 2014!

If you are a Tir Athair or Grassroots fan, watch this blog or my Facebook page, or sign up for Grassroots’ newsletters to get updates on the street faire. We hope to see you there!

Would you like free signed books? Read on to find the secret buzzwords!

An Artown Event

Sunday, July 6, 2014

10am to 9pm

Wingfield Park (on the river)

Banner by Blue Harvest Creative

An excerpt from Vassal, available September 20th, 2014:

Aislin marched arrow-first into the hall. The sun, now peeking full into the window, danced along the high points of the men’s faces. They reacted the same as all men did when facing Aislin’s bow. Their somber expressions became dubious, and they retreated a step.

Darrion demanded, “What do you want?”

The same husky voice rasped, “We seek wheat and rye.”

Immediately Darrion replied, “We have stores to share, if you are needy.”

Aislin’s arrow sagged. She didn’t often feed beggars, for she rarely had ample food for her own fief. “What do you—No, we don’t. We have to plant.”

“I’ll take care of this,” Darrion said.

“But we don’t—”

“I said—” He set a hand on her bare shoulder. “—I’ll take care of this.”

Shrugging his hand away, she lowered her bow.

The men stood patiently. One, blond with long hair tied back in a tail at the base of his neck, carried an axe slung on his belt. The other, with a mane of dark, scrubby wool on his face and his chin, carried a one-handed arming sword. They watched Aislin’s bow, but they did not approach.

“The grain is in the barn,” Darrion said. “Allow me to retrieve my boots, and I’ll fill a sack for your journey.” Passing by Aislin on his way back to the room, he whispered to her, “Try not to shoot them.”

Her mouth fell open, and her head turned to watch him leave. One of the intruders shuffled his feet. Aislin aimed her arrow at him and cocked her elbow back. “Don’t move,” she snarled.

Did you catch the buzz word? In case you didn’t:

I’ll be giving a swag bag to the first person who approaches our booth and proclaims, “I seek wheat and rye.” Within Vassal, those words promise trust within a secret and illegal organization. On Sunday, they might win you a signed copy of Minstrel, swords and tiaras for up to 5 children in your group, and a tote bag courtesy of Blue Harvest Creative.

Please drop by the Renaissance Faire. Listen to amazing music. Visit vendors for some tantalizing food and unique wares. And come see us! We’re offering a free sword or tiara for every two books you purchase, and have many stories to suit your personal tastes.

Angie rolled her head to the side, collecting autumn leaves in the congealed blood where the bullet had grazed her temple. She groaned at her crippling headache.

Something groaned in response.

Motionless beneath the autumn carpet, Angie glanced around. Heavy feet moved through the leaves with a rhythmic step-shuffle. Her fingers flexed, longing for her Glock. A half-decayed man, with scalp and hair hanging from the right side of his skull, ambled among the twice-dead.

The wind blew through the grove, stripping leaves from her inert body.

The zombie whirled around. Milky eyes fixed on her. Twisting its body until it faced her, it shuffled between leaf-covered mounds of rotting flesh.

Angie held her breath as the zombie swayed above her. It opened its mouth and groaned. Flecks of rotten lip fell off and skittered down the channel between her nose and cheek. Angie gagged and coughed. The zombie flinched, tilted its head, and bent down to observe her. They stared, her blue gaze to his milky white, as she tried to keep from blinking. The zombie stood up straight with a creaking of shrunken tendons. Groaning softly through the hole in its throat, it turned away.

She closed her eyes against the nauseating sunlight as the walking corpse explored the killing field. Shivering within her M65 field jacket, she slowly lifted an arm. In response to the rustle of leaves, the zombie turned again. It groaned in acknowledgement. Angie wiggled her fingers, but the corpse ignored her and continued its exploration.

With her eyes on the zombie, she sat up and pushed the leaves away. It did not respond as she stood, staggering from a sudden rush of vertigo. Angie widened her stance and cupped her hands over her eyes, smearing sticky blood over her face. She pulled her hands back and cursed at the gash across her palm.

She pressed her palm to her mouth, licking the salty, coppery blood away. The flavor soothed her, calmed her headache.

With her lips sealed over the wound, she shuffled between zombie bodies, toward the sunset.

This morning the unit had traveled east from the barn, following the old country road beside the broken-down white slat fence, keeping their guns trained before them. The old maple groves had been a refuge during the summer, unpopulated before the outbreak and free of zombies after. Now the old groves were no safer than the rest of Vermont. Angie’s unit, determined to defend their home, had used the most agile of them as bait. He had ducked between rotting hands before the rest of the unit opened fire on the herd of undead.

Sweat beaded on her forehead and she shivered beneath her jacket. The sun winked between maple trunks as she trudged down the abandoned road. Her old black combat boots plowed through mounds of red and orange, shoving the leaves aside. She pulled her hand away to cough then pressed her lips back against the freshly bleeding gash.

Gray against the flame of autumn, the barn rose higher on the other side of the little hill. She blinked her blurry eyes, watching the wooden shingles bob up, then down, then up higher in rhythm to her rough gait.

Piles of blackened wood lay around the barn, where the unit had burned the twice-dead to avoid contamination. An old Dutch oven sat on a rock beside the dedicated cooking fire. Nobody roamed the yard.

Angie coughed as she pressed on the latch. She rolled her neck back and forth, shivering when the wind dipped its chill fingers into her coat and down her back. Grabbing the handle with two sticky hands, she pulled the barn door open.

Sleeping bags carpeted the middle of the barn, well away from the walls. Angie found Todd’s bag, right beside the 4×4 support beam where he liked to hang his .357. She shrugged out of her jacket and sank to her knees. Pulling back the ripped and patched flap, she slid into the bag and buried her face in the quilting. It smelled like him. Angie shoved the fabric against her nose and inhaled deeply.

The door creaked open, and the last of the day’s light peeked in. Ten living bodies shadowed the entrance. Angie listened for the slick sound of cowboy boots along the barn floor. Todd led the unit into the barn, sliding his .357 from his shoulder as the door creaked shut.

The wooden stock of the gun tapped against the 4×4. Todd’s big, callused hand shifted on the beam as he kicked his boots off. Sliding against the beam, Angie made room for the man who had promised to love her forever.

Who had promised to never hurt her.

Todd knelt down, and his hand landed on her feverish arm. He froze. Inhaling a slow, cautious breath, he slid his rough palm against her sweaty skin, stopping at her paracord bracelet he had given her months ago.

He traced the bite mark just below the bracelet, his fingers glancing over the edges of dying flesh. Todd’s hand trembled.

It trembled just as it had this morning, when he had witnessed the bite. When the zombie had grabbed her wrist and sank its teeth into her flesh. His hands trembled so much that the barrel of the .357 jerked wildly as he took aim. Todd’s eyes clenched shut. He pulled the trigger.

The bullet had only grazed her.

Todd now yelled and jerked back, but Angie grabbed his wrist. She held tight with newfound strength and vigor, with muscles not yet decayed, in the most dangerous phase of the transformation. The phase Todd had tried to avoid by shooting her when she was first bitten.